


There's a Second Wind Coming

by YourKnightOfRage



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, But he's trying, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:21:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23369929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YourKnightOfRage/pseuds/YourKnightOfRage
Summary: After the mountain Jaskier grants Geralt his wish.And he's fine, really, he doesn't mind, it's not like this is a constant battle against his own heart.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 30
Kudos: 352





	There's a Second Wind Coming

**Author's Note:**

> hello new fandom! 
> 
> so,,,, this fic was a weird experience, I'll admit.
> 
> I was listening to The Amazing Devil's That Unwanted Animal at about three am and was possessed by the need to try and convey that feral feeling into a fic, so here we are.
> 
> So, this is kind of a Vent Fic, but i hope you like it, especially since I'm planning to write more for this pairing

Twenty-two years was a long time.

  


It was most of his life, it was his entire adult life, and it was almost entirely dedicated to Geralt of Rivia.

  


A foolish endeavour, really, since Geralt never even spoke the word “friend” out loud.

He’d even told Jaskier to leave many times, that he annoyed him, but the bard ignored it because surely it was banter. And maybe it hurt a few times, but. 

  


But Jaskier had sat down in front of him, once.

  


When Geralt had been the only one not to complain about Jaskier's singing. He was the scariest person in the room, and yet the most gentle, the most willing to lend an ear. 

  


Geralt gave him his last coin, and Jaskier was in love, in lust, in too deep. 

  


And there was nothing strange in that, Jaskier was always a lover, he always fell fast and hard. With every maid that turned a genuine smile to him, with every boy at the market that met him with a witty remark. 

  


He loved them all, wholeheartedly, he loved the stretch marks and the bones that stuck out. He loved for a bit, long enough for his heart to beat, certain it did so for them only, and then his eyes would catch someone new and he’d love them too.

  


And that was supposed to be how it went with Geralt too.

  


He was supposed to fall for him and if Geralt caught him they would land in bed and be happy as could be. If Geralt did not catch him? That would be just as well, Jaskier would bounce back up and down some other stranger's pretty eyes.

  


And he was so used to falling he didn't even realize that the wind had picked him up. That most of his life had already gone by by the time he started seeing the floor.

  


Twenty-two years of being tolerated, of not being quite enough, of screaming at Geralt how much he loved him for it to fall onto deaf ears. Maybe Geralt didn’t want to hear, maybe he had meant it every time he tried to get rid of him. But the witcher never put enough effort in it, and Jaskier loved being around him, so he stayed.

  


And Jaskier knew, dear Melitele oh Gods, he knew. How badly he needed to find an other pit to throw himself into. 

  


Because he wasn't young anymore, and his feeling was vain and wasted, because Geralt did not return it.

  


Honestly Jaskier deserved better than constant annoyance, rolled eyes. 

  


And yet, there he was, unable to pull away from Geralt just because he didn't want to miss the next time his lips tilted up.

  


Just because Geralt was good to him. 

  


If Jaskier had been a man of more mettle, he would have left. The first time he realized Yennefer was not going to walk right back out of their lives, he would've done it.

  


If Jaskier were a man of resolve he would have left Geralt behind. He would have given up his endless fall, dive in firewater and forget all but how to play his lute.

That ought to get him some peace of mind.

  


But Geralt was good to him.

  


He let him walk along his mere, and he let him babble on, and he let Jaskier touch him. Regardless of how many times Jaskier's hand lingered on his warm skin when patching him up, Geralt wouldn't cut him to size.

  


Geralt was good to him, and Jaskier was weak, he was selfish.

  


He was a disaster and for six years more he kept on falling. Asking why he couldn't bring himself to walk away, away from watching a love that hurt him.

  


And then there was the mountain.

  


As far up in the world as the two had ever been together.

  


And Jaskier had tried it all, really. To protect him, to be allowed at his side still, to tell him how he felt, Jaskier had tried it all before Geralt turned to him.

  


And it wasn't fair.

  


Not a word spat at him had been deserved, and Jaskier could do nothing more than welcome his sentence.

  


Once more Geralt had been good to him, because now the choice wasn't his anymore, and he had the way out. 

  


Jaskier could've thrown himself off of that mountain.

  


He was used to the feeling of wind rushing past his ears, it didn’t bother him anymore, but he needed the time.

  


So he walked. 

  


He made his way down fast as wind, pouring his tears into his heart first and the pages of his notebook second.

  


He wrote as if taken by a fever, as if he truly believed that once into song his feelings would settle.

  


He wrote onto every page, back and front. And then he wrote between crossed out verses, so small the lines seemed blurry, and his dry eyes were tricked. The headache, the burning eyes felt exactly like they did after he cried, but not one tear was spilled. They all stayed behind his eyes, choked him until they left though the gash in his heart.

  


When all the words were in the right order, all the chords figured out, for one second he felt relieved, at ease. Everything would be alright.

Even if his voice still broke when he sang it and his mind wandered to the witcher never his, the pain would stop. And he could fall for someone new.

  


How lovely it would have been if the fall could be broken so easily.

  


He still met hungry eyes and brutal smiles, and he still came tumbling down for them, but there wasn’t that wind pushing against his back.

  


He would look at others and they would never fall into each other.

  


Still he begged them all to place their hands in his, to let him love them and act as if they loved him back. And he wondered how long it would all last, when would he be free.

This wasn’t supposed to happen to him, he wasn’t supposed to love him still. But he had no control of his heart anyone, it behaved like an animal of its own mind and will.

  


And Jaskier didn’t want it.

  


How long before his feral heart scratched it’s way out of Jaskier’s chest. How long till it chased down a witcher, till it allowed Peace to devour its owner. 

He never did control his heart, but now it was working against him in the worst way, and Jaskier didn’t want it.

  


He wanted to be let out, wanted to love and be loved.

  


And he grew to hate Geralt, hate the years he’d chased after him. Hate how many times he stopped mid breath, an observation dying on his lips and Geralt’s hum already in his ears. He hated that Geralt wasn’t there to listen.

  


He hated that he’d never regret those twenty-two years.

  


Every realization made his blood burn, his jaw clench.

  


His heart still scratched in his chest, and if given the chance Jaskier would hurl his lute at Geralt’s head. Tell him he didn’t deserve to be treated like that and scream it in his face too.

  


He was so sure that, if given the chance, he would have poured his drink on Geralt’s head without any hesitation.

  


And then he caught a glimpse of white hair go through the rotten wood door of a tavern.

  


That night Jaskier walked to the other side of town. He walked through the stone-laid streets, avoiding the puddles of rainwater and cattle piss. He walked through the emptying city square and to the raising walls of the nobles. Over the decaying houses of everyone else. He walked until he reached a circle of walls, the end of a street, then he climbed and sat down.

  


There he waited for the sun to lighten the blue sky and paint the clouds magenta and pink. 

  


He didn’t sleep. He didn’t think of his lute and clothes in that same tavern, of the agreement he’d settled on with the innkeeper.

  


He used to be so sure, he was such a fool.

  


His heart kept on scratching at his chest, and Jaskier ran from Geralt because he would have said yes. Geralt hadn't even looked at him, let alone apologized, and Jaskier would have said yes to anything.

  


He sat through the morning.

He sat next to the hearth burning in the name of the Eternal Fire, and the flames in his flask kept him warm. 

  


The Continent was wide, and their lives were different. What were the chances that they’d run into each other again? Jaskier wasn’t looking for him anymore, and Geralt had never done it. So there was no way they'd run into one another.

  


He drank until his flask was empty, his mind was blurry. He drank until the sun reached its highest point in the sky, and his heart got drowned out.

Their destinies were not tied together, they’d been held tight only thanks to Jaskier’s stubbornness. They wouldn't meet again. He wouldn’t have to run like a kicked dog again, right?

  


Of course not. 

  


He was just one town over, one tavern over when Geralt walked in again. But this time Jaskier was sitting inside, and there was no way to escape. No Gods left for him to beg mercy of. And as he sat there, notebook cradling verses that already sounded hollow, he waited. 

  


He felt the moment Geralt’s eyes found him. 

There was no sign of his approach, Geralt didn't even spare him that kindness. His steps were as silent as ever, not even the wooden floor creaked under his weight. 

  


Jaskier’s hand shook around his pencil.

  


Vertigo returned like an old friend, and he could smell the cold wind.

  


When Geralt reached his table with two tankards in hand, Jaskier was already turning to him with a smile. 

On his lips, away from his eyes.

  


Geralt clenched his jaw, looking to his right before letting a few words come out.

  


“I shouldn’t have said those things.” It wasn’t an apology.

  


He looked at Jaskier only after, and he stood there, unmoving with squared shoulders. And if Jaskier thought Geralt looked tenser than usual, surely, he was wrong.

  


“I would say so, yes.” The tone that left his lips was so much like the overly dramatic hurt he’d used so many times. He wondered if the witcher’s finer senses would pick up a shift in tone. He wondered if there was a difference at all. “I would say that you sounded rather like a mammering rough-hewn bugbear. But what can I say, you’re not used to talking. It’s only natural that you’d shove your foot way down your mouth the first time you tried anything longer than a ‘hmm, fuck.’ isn’t it?”

  


Geralt hummed. For a heartbeat Jaskier felt his smile turn genuine, he’d called it. He’d swear that for a moment the tension lessened in the air.

  


Geralt was smirking, even a blind man first meeting him would notice.

  


Was that his attempt at a joke? He couldn’t do this to Jaskier.

  


The witcher placed one of the goblets on the table, ale still foaming in front of the bard.

  


If Jaskier was ever to show Geralt how cross he was with him, this was the time. 

  


But he didn’t throw the offering off the table, he didn’t go back to his notebook pretending he could ignore the other. As much as his mind told him he had every right to do much more than that, his body refused.

  


All he could do was sit back, sip from the goblet, simmer in the bitterness settling on his tongue and below his ribs. 

  


And then he was offering a wide gesture, the seat in front of him, and a way for talks to move without awkwardness.

  


“Well then. Sit, m-” Not his, not darling. “-ighty witcher. And tell me: how has life been going for you?”

  


For a short moment Geralt hesitated, like he couldn’t believe it would be so easy. Like he thought it would take his greatest effort for things to move forward between them. If he had to be honest Jaskier was just as surprised, maybe screaming a bit on the inside. 

  


Like he’d lost control of his body, and now he couldn’t help but do the most stupid thing. Did he truly have no sense of self preservation? 

  


It took years before Geralt threw a bone his way, a chance to get away from whatever there wasn’t between them. And now he was clawing at the wall between them right along with his own heart.

  


Why was it so desperate? Was it because Geralt had let him in before, because he’d been fed scraps? 

  


Why would Geralt do so when he didn’t want to keep Jaskier? He didn’t seem like the kind of person to relish in kicking a stray dog.

  


But Geralt was sliding in the seat in front of him. Delicate and graceful like a predator, and he looked at Jaskier, not blinded by the glamour of performance. 

  


“It has not been going worse than it should in times of war.” He hesitated, eyebrows furrowed, not done but looking for the right words. “It has been going well, actually. I found my child surprise, she is safe in Kaer Morhen.”

  


Oh, what a bastard he was. So many words, telling him even more than what Jaskier had asked for. Not a simple ‘Fine.’ and then silence, Geralt was putting effort into this. 

  


His heart slammed against his ribcage.

  


“And you have not gotten yourself killed, Jaskier. That’s good.” 

  


And at this point all Jaskier could do was hold his breath, hold his heart back, hope his chest wouldn’t splinter.

  


“Worried about me, were you?” The words dropped from his mouth with no control whatsoever. Jaskier couldn’t stop them, too caught up in keeping the door shot to his feral heart. “Who are you and what did you do to the emotionally constipated witcher I knew?” 

  


He flinched at his own words, the raw edge was certainly not meant to be there.

  


“Jaskier.” There he went, reminding Geralt of how little he enjoyed having him around. This was likely the best way for him to keep away, so it was unreasonable for his palms to start sweating. Why were his palms sweating, why was he hoping Geralt wouldn’t notice how much he disliked Jaskier.

  


“I’m sorry.” 

  


The human could only blink.

  


“I mean it.” Geralt's hand clenched and unclenched on the table. The leather of his glove pulled tight, the sound choked. Jaskier’s throat was too tight for air to go through it. “I’m not- You’re the one that is good with feelings, but I want to make it better.” 

  


So he meant to do something about it, to act because words were not how he did things. Did this mean that they would go back to how things were before? He wasn’t content with that, he was so tired of things being like that.

  


Jaskier didn’t know. He didn’t know if he was just too tired, or if his heart had grown more desperate, stronger since the mountain. But it felt like he wouldn’t be able to hold it back for much longer. It was about to rip his ribcage open and then Geralt would know everything that Jaskier felt for him. All because his heart betrayed him but never the witcher.

  


“Will you let me?”

  


Yes. Geralt didn’t need to make up for anything, Jaskier couldn’t have the witcher close again, he desperately wanted things to be alright again - Jaskier’s head was spinning - Geralt was forgiven already, Jaskier would never forgive him, he wanted them to be friends again, - he couldn’t breathe, his eyes felt wet - he wanted to be so much more, he wanted Geralt to leave him alone and never see him again and to never let him go, he wanted to crawl into his skin and long again for him, to only be friends, to kiss him - he couldn’t have Geralt close again, away again, close again, never close enough - his hand was shaking, why was his hand shaking? Why were words not leaving his lips? - Geralt was there.

  


His hand was on Jaskier’s.

  


The bard’s hand wasn’t shaking anymore, the skin from Geralt’s hand seeped into his. It was warm, smooth, and teasing, just barely making it through the leather. 

  


And Jaskier could breathe. The wood beneath his hand was rough and bitin, the tavern smelled of ale and food and sweat. The wind was still blowing to his back, and he was falling.

  


Geralt’s lips twitched ever so slightly. Jaskier wondered if he could smell how much his touch had calmed Jaskier down.

  


Geralt drew small circles on his wrist. Could he feel the bone clearly beneath his glove? Jaskier could feel the warmth.

  


His heart was almost free.

  


“So, where to next?” 

  


“I think you could like the coast.”

**Author's Note:**

> why hello there.
> 
> hope this read was warth your time, if you will be so kind, would you leave me a comment? There is a strange creature with tentacles like crab's legs that lives in my closet and if I don't feed it valudation it will literally kill me.
> 
> And maybe come talk to me on Tumblr? @kuipereris
> 
> and hey,  
> thanks!


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